


The Bridge

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death, Misunderstandings, Modern Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 20:17:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3087707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin returns to work in the royal household just before Christmas, after a period of unpaid leave. At first, he just about manages to hold things together. But then he’s dragged into a game of Bridge, sitting opposite the king himself, and Arthur starts to unpick his defences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> With enormous thanks to Candymacaron for cheerleading and for gently steering me with her kind words.

As Merlin watched from his vantage point in the royal apartments at Camelot Palace, a sleek-faced nuthatch swooped across onto the bird-feeder, paused for a second to check for danger with a bright-eyed gaze, and grabbed a beakful of nuts before flying off again with efficient wing strokes. The robin, on the other hand, hopped about underneath the table, darting in to mop up whatever leftover fragments he could collect before the greedy squirrels and pigeons had a chance to steal them all.

Merlin had always had a deep sympathy for the robins of this world, working tirelessly and without complaint for the meagre leavings of other, more glamorous birds. Being beneath their notice. Having to be cheerful even in the most difficult weather. Putting a brave face on things. They reminded him of his mother.

The palace kitchens had been hard at work all night, and the ventilation ducts exhaled the results of their labours into the atmosphere just underneath the window where Merlin sat, so that wafts of turkey, brussels sprouts and Christmas pudding, all the smells of Christmas past, percolated into the room. They evoked a more immediate nostalgia than any words of sympathy on Christmas cards. With all his heart Merlin wished them gone, because they reminded him of happier times. Of laughingly opening lame presents from Will and Freya, and throwing the Christmas wrapping paper at each other until his mother yelled at them to stop making a mess, and to come and set the table, because dinner was ready. Of pulling his Christmas cracker, telling the worst jokes, and dissolving into giggles when his mother made up new jokes that were both even worse and also somehow much funnier than the originals. Of eating his mother’s home-made Christmas pudding, even though it was bullet-hard and tasted of cardboard, and telling her that it tasted divine, because she had made it, and he loved her so much. Of her soft, proud smile, and her laugh, and the warm scent of her when she pulled him in for a hug. All the things he couldn’t have any more, could never have, and it hurt to think of them, hurt so much that it squeezed the breath from his chest and made him ache inside with the strain of keeping his feelings in.

He was quite grateful when Elyan’s quiet voice penetrated his maudlin thoughts. “You’re on in five more minutes, Merlin.”

He nodded in reply. “Thanks,” he said, shifting off the window seat and checking his attire in the mirror. This was not his first shift since returning to duty two weeks ago, but it would be the longest. He’d be waiting at table at lunch, today, and then helping in the kitchen this evening. Pulling on his gloves, he gave himself a metaphorical shake, told himself to snap out of it, and set off down the corridor to his station.

Not being in much of a celebratory mood this Christmas, he had thought that working through the holiday would help him to put it all behind him for the year, as well as bringing in some much-needed money to help fund his Ph.D. He had forgotten that although he had cancelled Christmas for himself, the royal juggernaut continued in its inexorable trajectory. The festive trappings could not be avoided. There were visiting relatives—including the newly-crowned king’s half-sister and her consort, who were visiting from neighbouring Lothian. There were Christmas carols at the church in the morning, with photos for the press. Christmas dinner in the afternoon. Christmas games in the evening. Camelot's new king couldn't be feeling particularly jolly after the year he’d had, but no doubt the press office had forced him to go through the motions anyway. It was his first Christmas as king, after all. He wondered if any of his sizeable entourage had remembered that it was also his first Christmas as an orphan—as it was Merlin’s.

Merlin quite enjoyed waiting at table. It was his job to be silent, to anticipate the requirements of the diners, and to respond to them without being obtrusive. He liked the way that he could slip into a kind of numb reverie, reacting to the here and now without thought, his movements efficient and swift, like the robin’s, as he removed the scraps and ferried them to the kitchens, returning with plates of new delicacies, trying to ignore the deep, nostalgic unease that awakened in him as their scents wafted towards his nose. These Christmas puddings were nothing like his mother’s, of course. They looked moist and soft, fragrant with the aroma of fruit and the merest hint of the finest cognac. Back home, the only thing that had made Mum’s pud palatable was a generous slosh of cheap cooking brandy. Forgetting himself for a moment, Merlin found his lips tilting up into a rueful smile at the memory, and at that moment felt eyes on him, and looked up only to lock gazes with the king himself.

“Is something amusing you, _Mer_ lin?” King Arthur had always made a point of remembering all the servants’ names. It was one of the subtle yet important ways that he differed from his father, which prompted a deep loyalty in the staff of the royal household. Probably only Merlin could hear the sardonic inflection in the way that Arthur emphasised the first syllable of his name. Hell, maybe he was imagining it. But Arthur’s mirthless grin, coupled with the way that he cocked his head on one side, suggested that he was waiting for an answer.

Merlin licked his lips. These were the most words that Arthur had spoken to him directly since he resumed his duties. He hadn't known what to expect from Arthur upon his return, he had been waiting for some sort of an explosion, but Arthur had maintained a dignified distance. So they hadn't actually talked since that fateful night, a few weeks after Uther’s death, when Merlin had left so precipitously. He’d had to stay away for a long time, too, his mother's decline had been drawn out over three painful months. The memory of her suffering constricted his heart and made his lips twist down again, and he looked at the table for a second, swallowing to hide his sudden confusion. When he looked up, defences back in place, he thought for a moment that there might have been a flicker of something, something hot and intent, in Arthur’s eyes, but it died as soon as he saw it and was replaced by the cool, austere expression he bore these days.  

“No, Your Majesty,” said Merlin, laying a steaming hot plate of plum pudding down in front of Arthur, oriented precisely as dictated by the chef, and backing away as protocol required him to. “I hope you enjoy your dessert, sir.”  

“Thank you, Merlin.” Arthur looked like he might add something else, but then he sighed heavily before picking up his spoon and fork. “That will be all.” At his signal, the rest of the household started to eat and the room filled with the happy tick of cutlery on china, and a low buzz of appreciative conversation.  But Merlin thought he could feel the king’s heavy gaze on him as he left the room. When he turned to close the door, Arthur’s eyes met his again, and for a moment that flash of heat discharged between them again. But it was gone so quickly that he thought he must have imagined it.

*

As the rest of the day passed in a whirlwind of plate settings, wine glasses and silver trays, Merlin found that his original idea to lose himself in work was going rather better. It was very late when he finally sat down for a five-minute break in the kitchen, supping coffee with Sefa in companionable and exhausted silence, and that’s when Daegal came running in.

“Merlin? You play Bridge don’t you?”

“A bit,” said Merlin, puzzled. He had picked up the basics from playing with his mum, Freya and Will at home, and he’d played a bit of Bridge during the lunch hours of his summer jobs at the aquarium, while he was doing his degree. He enjoyed the game, but he was by no means an expert. “Why?”

“The king’s looking for someone to make up a four with him, Princess Morgana and Prince Agravaine. I said I knew someone who could play.” Daegal looked so proud he could almost explode with it. Like most of the staff he adored the king, and would do anything in his power for a word of praise from him.

Merlin sighed. He was off duty now, and he really could do without reopening unhealed wounds, but at the same time he didn’t want to deflate Daegal’s bubble. Wearily, he dragged himself to his feet, wincing at how much they still ached, and downed the gritty dregs of his coffee, grimacing a bit at their bitterness.

“All right then,” he said, ignoring his premonition that this could only lead to disaster. “Lead on Macduff! Mustn’t keep the king waiting, now, must we?”

*

The long walk from the busy, clattering kitchens to the peace of the royal family’s private apartments gave him ample time to reflect and regret his decision to help out. Particularly when, by chance or design, he did not know which, his steps took him past the new portrait of Arthur. It had been painted in happier times, before Uther’s death, and the artist had captured Arthur in a moment of joy, turning from his favourite horse, Hengroen, with one of his sudden bright smiles, the sun reflected on his golden hair in a glorious halo. It was an expression that Merliln particularly treasured. He hadn’t realised how much he had missed it. He stopped dead, for a moment, struck by a terrible moment of grief at all that he had lost.

By the time that he stepped quietly into the room, he had managed to talk down his misgivings and encase his most private feelings into the heavy slab of ice that surrounded his heart. Nevertheless, the sense of doom that lingered over him made it feel as if he was walking into a prison cell, and the ominous click of the door at his back felt like his escape being cut off.  

“Your Majesty, Your Royal Highnesses,” he said, nodding at the other occupants of the table, and drawing up the remaining empty chair, opposite Arthur. He sank into it, carefully, so as not to jar his back, sore after a particularly full day’s work, and swung his weary legs into place beneath the baize. Neatly arrayed on the table sat two piles of cards, four perfectly sharpened gold pencils, and two brand new English Bridge Union Bridge scoring cards, embossed with the King’s own Pendragon emblem. When he looked up into a steady, blue gaze, loaded with disapproval and resentment, fatigue flooded through him, cold and unforgiving, and he shivered, suddenly wishing himself far from here.

While they were cutting the deck to decide who should deal, Arthur’s eyes flicked over him. “So you’re the Bridge player, I see. Nice of you to deign to join us, _Mer_ lin,” he drawled, one side of his mouth raised appraisingly.

The cutting inflection in Arthur’s tone was not lost on Merlin. Trust Arthur not to make this easy. It was not like he had chosen what had happened, it wasn't as if any of it was his idea. If he could have turned the clock back a year, he’d have been more than happy to do so, but that’s not how it works, is it? Horrible things happen, confusing things happen, and people end up like this, sitting opposite each other sniping like strangers, and none of it had been his idea, and he would apologise, but he didn't know where to start.

“I must say I’m surprised at the honour, Merlin” Arthur added in a biting tone. “I thought you had better things to do than to waste your time socialising with the riff raff.”

So that was to be the way of things. Merlin refused to rise to the bait. He would be polite and deferent, and would not stoop to making any sarcastic comments.

“Looks like it's your deal, _sir_ ,” he said, pointedly, in return, feeling the colour rising to his cheeks. He bit down onto his lip to stop himself from saying any more, because what the hell was Arthur implying? King or no king, his staff had a right to take time off, unpaid, to deal with a family emergency, Arthur of all people should have known that, and he could already feel himself beginning to crack, could feel a tight knot growing in his chest and a muscle tick in his jaw, and God, how was he going to survive this?  

That was when Princess Morgana, sitting to his left, chose to break her silence. “I’m not sure we have met,” she said, her head tilted on one side as she regarded him in the same way that an Eagle considers its prey before ripping into it, talons outstretched. “I’m Morgana Pendragon. In case you didn’t know.”

Merlin cleared his throat, while Arthur drew the cards together and shuffled, then started to deal, watching Merlin through narrowed eyes all the while.  “Merlin Emrys, I’m an assistant under-footma—”

“Oh, don’t worry, I know who you are, Merlin,” said Morgana, smiling sweetly at him.

Taken aback, he nodded. “Ah. Right! Erm, well. I’m honoured to make your acquaintance, Your Royal Highness,” he choked out, eventually, wondering exactly how much she knew, tamping down a surprised moment of pleasure at the fact that Arthur must have talked about him.   

“Indeed you are. Oh, please, don’t stand on ceremony, Merlin, you can call me ma’am.” She paused to check her perfectly varnished fingernails before picking up her hand and sorting it.  

Merlin looked to his right, where Prince Agravaine was also moving cards into their positions, fanning them out into his left hand to examine them, drumming the table with the fingers of his right hand. But the prince did not deign to introduce himself, and in keeping with protocol Merlin therefore kept silent.   

“One club,” said Arthur to open the bidding, his voice clear and clipped, and for a second Merlin thought that perhaps that was it, that the rest of the evening would focus only on the game at hand, and that maybe he’d escaped any further digs.  

“No bid,” said Agravaine, his voice deep and smooth.

Merlin had a decent supporting hand; eight high-card points and five hearts to the king. “One heart,” he said, focusing on keeping his voice firm, and trying to ignore the derisive snort this elicited from Arthur, but failing. “What? Is something bothering you, sir?”

“Nothing, Merlin. Let’s just say that I’m quite shocked at you having a heart at all.” Arthur’s glare intensified and bored into him. “Let alone a heart suit strong enough to _say something_.”

Merlin felt heat creeping up his neck and cheeks, which only grew when he glanced to his left to meet Morgana’s curious eyes. Right. So Arthur had finally chosen to act, in public. Well, in front of Arthur’s family, anyway. And Arthur’s butler, Leon. And the maid, Gwen, who was clearing away the remaining cheese plates from the table.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” he said, schooling his voice to remain measured and professional.

“No bid,” said Morgana. “Arthur, don’t be so mean to the poor boy. Can’t you see he’s trembling?”

With horror, Merlin realised that she was right, that the fan of cards in his left hand was shaking minutely. He put his wrist to the table to steady it.

“I’m all right, thank you ma’am,” he said, taking a deep breath, knowing that Arthur’s annoyance was only understandable, given the circumstances of Merlin’s sudden, unexplained and protracted period of unpaid leave. “Just a bit tired. It’s been a long day.”  He could explain it all, he was sure Arthur would understand if only he would just give Merlin a chance. But the knot of pain in his chest just pulled more tightly at his ribs, making his breathing feel shallow and inadequate.  

“Ah yes, I forgot how easily you tire, Merlin,” drawled Arthur. “I forgot a lot about you, I suppose. I was just beginning to forget how your idiotic grin looked, when suddenly you returned with a face so long you could use it to land planes on. And uncharacteristically silent, too, for which I suppose I should be grateful. One no trump.”

In the past Arthur’s gibes would have been warmer, designed to make him smile and riposte. But now - now, there was a pointed edge to his voice that was meant to hurt, and in his current, raw, vulnerable state, Merlin found that he was not immune to the sharper edges of Arthur’s tongue. He felt his eyes blur as he tried to examine his cards, and the beginnings of a headache developing behind his forehead.

“No bid,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, and willing himself not to break down, not now. “Sir.”

The bidding thus concluded, Arthur needed to win seven tricks in playing out both his and Merlin’s hands, while Agravaine and Morgana did their best to thwart him. He played them out in silence, winning easily, picking up a couple of overtricks from Merlin’s long heart suit on table.

“Could have won three,” said Agravaine, smirking. “Could easily have bid a game contract there, Arthur.”

“Unfortunately, my partner underbid,” said Arthur, with a frown. Merlin could see his jaw tensing while Morgana gathered up the cards to shuffle them, and Merlin cut the other pack for Agravaine to deal. “Giving me a weak reply to a strong one club opener. But then I suppose the idiot was not well taught. Plus he’s mentally deficient, so we should make allowances—”

“I’m sitting right here!” protested Merlin, indignant at this implied slight to his mum. Forgetting his determination to be cool and professional, he lost track of all protocol for a moment. “I was taught by my mother but we always played a natural club opener rather than—”

“Still,” Arthur interrupted him, shifting his weight in his chair to motion to the hovering Leon. “I suppose that’s all we can expect.” He stared at Merlin, jaw tense, lips in a challenging line while he shuffled the cards with a flourish, and Merlin wondered what vicious jab was coming next. “After all, he’s a typical product of a broken home. We can hardly expect mastery of the game from someone who suffered such feckless parenting. More port, please, Leon.”

Merlin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Feckless? Insult me all you like, Arthur,” he said, hotly, rising to his feet and slamming both fists onto the table so that Morgana jumped. “But I don’t care who you are, you have no right to say anything like that about my mum!” His eyes pricked, and a small part of him realised with alarm that the icy layer that he’d so carefully bound around his heart and ribs was cracking, threatening to tear him apart.

“What the— you cannot speak to the king like that! Arthur who is this man? You should have him sacked.” Finally Agravaine’s disapproving glare was focused on him, but Merlin could not bring himself to care, he was too busy looking daggers at Arthur.

Arthur’s hand landed firmly on Agravaine’s arm, presumably to indicate that he had this under control. “Ah!” he said, smiling humourlessly, releasing Agravaine’s arm, and leaning back on his chair to look up at Merlin through heavy lidded eyes. “So you do remember my name! I was beginning to wonder. Who knows what sort of potent backstreet contraband they give you to drink back in Bumfuck or wherever it is you went back to. It’s a miracle you remember anything!”

And that was it, he knew Arthur was goading him, but he couldn’t keep it in any more. The tightly wound coil in Merlin’s chest chose that moment to start to unravel. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Agravaine’s disapproving frown.

“You know nothing!” Merlin said, in a choked-off voice, barely noticing how Arthur dismissed Morgana and Agravaine with a wave of his hand. He turned to face the window, struggling to get his breathing under control.

“I think the game is over, little brother,” he heard Morgana say quietly. “Good night. Happy Christmas.”

“I must protest, Arthur—”

“It’s all right, Agravaine,” said Arthur. “Just leave us, will you? I’ll explain in the morning.”

There was a quiet click, and suddenly he was alone with Arthur. He pressed his forehead to the window, desperately hoping that the cool, smooth glass would soothe his turbulent emotions, but to no avail. When he turned round, Arthur was still sitting, silent, toying with a deck of cards with his eyes trained on Merlin.

“I’m sorry I had to go, Arthur, truly," Merlin blurted out, "And I tried to get word to you but… you… I thought it wouldn’t be fair, with all the… with your father and with the coronation and… she was my mum! I had no time.” He couldn’t breathe. He paused to try to suck some air into his lungs, but then it all rushed out of him at once in a great rush. “Oh God, I wish… oh fuck. I don’t know any more. I just don’t. I don’t know what I can say. Nothing will make it better.” He felt his shoulders heave as a sob threatened to escape, and he scrunched up his face in an attempt to stop it from getting away from him. But it was no use. He’d held it back all these months, why did he have to choose this moment to let it get to him, why? His vision blurred and his legs felt suddenly weak.

“Try.” Arthur’s voice was closer now, and Merlin found himself being guided back to his chair where he sat, head down, jamming his fists into his eyes in a vain attempt to force back the tears. “Tell me now. Tell me where you went. Tell me why you left me, alone. One minute you were here, one minute I thought I had a friend who actually cared how I felt when my father… and the next, you were gone. Gone, Merlin! What was I meant to think?”

Merlin looked up, then, trying to focus. Arthur was sitting in the chair to his right, where Agravaine had been, and his warm hand covered Merlin’s icy one.  “It was a family—”

“Emergency, yes I know that, idiot! Expand.” The steel had left Arthur’s voice, something else was there, an exasperated tone that he’d missed more than he had realised.

“My mum,” he started to say, in a firm voice, “She—” but the words died in his throat and he couldn’t carry on with the sentence. “I’m sorry,” he whispered instead. “I know it was hard for you, but I had to. She needed me, you see. She couldn’t drive herself, for her treatments, I had to do that for her, and then when the nurses came to the house I didn’t want to leave her alone with them, and she was so frail, Arthur. I… um. Freya and Will helped, of course. So the head footman gave me compassionate leave. And I tried to contact you, but protocol—”

“Fuck protocol.”

The loss of warmth from his hand when Arthur got up to pace the room was like a physical blow. “Good God, Merlin,” Arthur said as he paced. There was a sharp intake of breath when he paused by the window. “I’m… I am so sorry for your loss.”

“I didn’t want to leave you, Arthur,” he said, feeling he had to clarify. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t about you. And anyway you had enough on your plate, so I thought...”

“You thought?” Arthur’s back was stiff, ramrod straight. “Did it not occur to you,” he said in a tense voice, “that, having suffered the loss of my own father, having appreciated the comfort of a friend—more than a friend—to confide in through his illness, I might have welcomed the privilege of doing the same for you?”

It hadn’t. Merlin's  felt his throat contract even as he tried to speak. His voice, when it came out, was hoarse. “Arthur, I—”

“I know I’m busy, I have duties, but I would like to think I am not completely without compassion.” The stricken look on Arthur’s face when he turned would haunt Merlin for the rest of his days. 

Biting his lip, Merlin shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, finally finding the words. “I know you’re the most caring man I have ever met.” Rising to his feet, he closed the space between them with swift steps. “I would have loved to have you by my side while she was sick, while she was…” He couldn’t say the word. “I am so sorry, Arthur, truly. I was trying to protect you. I thought... I thought you were going through so much, you didn't need this as well. But I was wrong. You deserved better from me.” He held out a hand.

Slowly Arthur reached out and grasped it, then tugged him in, enfolding him in a warm embrace.

Merlin buried his face in Arthur’s jersey, breathing him in, letting Arthur’s heat slowly melt away all the vestiges of ice around his heart, and it must have worked, because when he finally lifted his head Arthur’s face was wet.

“For a bloody genius,” Arthur said, gently, leaning forwards so that their foreheads were touching, and entwining Merlin’s fingers in his own, “you can be insufferably dense, Merlin.”

“I’m sorry.” On an impulse, Merlin let his arms encircle Arthur’s waist, and buried his face in Arthur’s shoulder.

“Stop apologising,” said Arthur, his voice sounding thick as his hands wrapped themselves round Merlin’s shoulders to still the way that they trembled. “Just… just stay. Stay with me for good this time.”

“But… you’re the king! And me, I’m just—I’m just me.” Merlin blinked and sniffed, to stop himself from messing up the royal sweater with his embarrassing display of weakness.

“You, Merlin, are a complete girl, sometimes, but you’re also my dearest friend. Stop putting yourself down.”

“I’ll try,” said Merlin, voice muffled by cashmere.

“You are going to resume your studies, and then when you qualify, you’re going to save species. Just as you always said you would. And I am going to have a Nobel prizewinner for a husband, and together we will change the world. Just as we always said we would.” Arthur's voice rumbled through his chest, the warmth of him seeping through his sweater and Merlin’s work shirt.

Merlin lifted his head. “You’re not to offer to pay for me again,” he warned. “I’m not going to be a burden, and I’m not a gold-digger.”  

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Arthur chuckled, his face transformed for a moment by a sly, unselfconscious smile that softened his eyes and made him look young, so young, again. Merlin knew he was remembering the last time they’d argued on this subject. It seemed like a long time ago, now; it was well before Uther died. “You can carry on working to earn your keep if you insist. Although you really are a terrible under-footman. Good at being under foot, and not for much else.”

Arthur’s face sobered again, and he brushed a lock of hair out of Merlin’s eye.  “But I was thinking of setting up a charitable foundation to sponsor research into endangered species. You don’t have to apply to them for a grant, of course, and I will have no jurisdiction over who the appointed board will award research money to, but...” his voice tailed off and Merlin felt his shoulders grabbed. “It’s not just for you. It’s because it’s important. But I do hope you will apply. I believe in you, Merlin.”

The overwhelming warm feeling that had been building in his chest swelled to the tips of his toes and the roots of his hair, and threatened to spill over his lashes onto his cheek again, which is when he replayed the conversation. “So—wait a minute! Did you… did you just ask me to marry you?”

“Don’t be silly, Merlin. You must have imagined things. As if the king of Camelot could possibly marry a scruffy Welsh student with the most ridiculous ears,” said Arthur, smirking.

“You did!” Merlin felt an answering smile creep across his face. It’d been so long since that happened he thought that it might crack. “You said I was going to win the Nobel prize!”

“Ridiculous. I must have been thinking of some other skinny researcher into endangered species, of course.” Arthur’s hands had slipped down to Merlin’s waist and were pulling him in, closer, so that their warmth seeped under his skin, and their chests were pressed together. If he concentrated he could feel the steady thump of Arthur’s heart beating, and warm gusts of Arthur’s breath in his hair. Merlin didn’t ever want to leave the comfort of this perfect embrace. It felt like coming home after a long and hazardous journey.

“Yes!” said Merlin, smiling at the strands of wool on Arthur’s favourite jersey, before straightening to look Arthur in the eye.

Arthur’s quizzical, frowning smile was one of Merlin’s favourite expressions. “Yes, what?”

“Yes… sir?”

Arthur lifted his eyes as if begging the heavens for strength. “I didn’t mean that, you nincompoop! What were you just agreeing with me about?”

Feeling a sudden burst of happiness welling up so that his smile widened even further, Merlin added, “I mean, yes, sir, I would be honoured to marry you, your Royal Pratness, sir.” 

Arthur laughed then, his strong fingers gripping the back of Merlin’s shirt tightly. “Manners, Merlin. I’m Your Royal Pratesty now. And you’ll be His Royal Cabbagehead.”

“Fuck, I’ll have a title. I’m not sure I’ve thought this through.”

“Your title, Merlin, will be Doctor Emrys. Just as soon as you’ve passed your bloody Ph.D.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stop calling me sir! And if you need to leave me again, to look after sick relatives or save a species or some such,” said Arthur, giving Merlin’s shoulders a little shake. “Bloody well talk to me first, all right?”

“Yes, sir. Arthur. I will,” said Merlin, firmly. “I swear. Someone needs to keep an eye on you. I wasn’t going to say anything about it at dinner, but you really should watch all those rich desserts, and I’d go a bit easy on the after-dinner choco—mmmfmfmf.”

The rest of the sentence was lost in the urgent press of Arthur’s lips against his, and the insistent bracket of Arthur’s thighs as they directed his steps backwards towards the couch. He landed heavily, grinning, with Arthur’s large hands fisting his shirt as Arthur straddled him.

Breaking off the kiss for a moment, Arthur looked down at him with a fond expression. “Shut up, Merlin,” he said, leaning in to capture Merlin’s lips again.

Merlin hummed a reply.

It was dark, and the curtains were drawn, but into the sudden silence rang the unmistakable trill of a robin, perched on the windowsill and singing ecstatically to the moon.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, and don't seek to profit from this enterprise.


End file.
